er than the rest. For Mr. Raymond was in the habit of telling
them a story when he went to see them, and they enjoyed it far more than
the other nice things which the doctor permitted him to give them.

"Very well," said Mr. Raymond, "I will. What sort of a story shall it
be?"

"A true story," said one little girl.

"A fairy tale," said a little boy.

"Well," said Mr. Raymond, "I suppose, as there is a difference, I may
choose. I can't think of any true story just at this moment, so I will
tell you a sort of a fairy one."

"Oh, jolly!" exclaimed the little boy who had called out for a fairy
tale.

"It came into my head this morning as I got out of bed," continued Mr.
Raymond; "and if it turns out pretty well, I will write it down, and get
somebody to print it for me, and then you shall read it when you like."

"Then nobody ever heard it before?" asked one older child.

"No, nobody."

"Oh!" exclaimed several, thinking it very grand to have the first
telling; and I daresay there might be a peculiar freshness about it,
because everything would be nearly as new to the story-teller himself as
to the listeners.

Some were only sitting up and some were lying down, so there could not
be the same busy gathering, bustling, and shifting to and fro with which
children generally prepare themselves to hear a story; but their faces,
and the turning of their heads, and many feeble exclamations of expected
pleasure, showed that all such preparations were making within them.

Mr. Raymond stood in the middle of the room, that he might turn from
side to side, and give each a share of seeing him. Diamond kept his
place by Nanny's side, with her hand in his. I do not know how much of
Mr. Raymond's story the smaller children understood; indeed, I don't
quite know how much there was in it to be understood, for in such a
story every one has just to take what he can get. But they all listened
with apparent satisfaction, and certainly with great attention. Mr.
Raymond wrote it down afterwards, and here it is--somewhat altered no
doubt, for a good story-teller tries to make his stories better every
time he tells them. I cannot myself help thinking that he was somewhat
indebted for this one to the old story of The Sleeping Beauty.

CHAPTER XXVIII. LITTLE DAYLIGHT

NO HOUSE of any pretension to be called a palace is in the least worthy
of the name, except it has a wood near it--very near it--and the nearer
the better. Not all